


Female Trouble

by Schwoozie



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bethyl Week, F/M, Fluff, Funeral Home, Menstruation, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's wrong with Beth. Daryl doesn't quite keep his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Female Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for a teeny-weeny reference to menstruation kink.
> 
> Thanks to milkshakemicrowave, as always <3
> 
> Written for day two of Bethyl Week, prompt: Red.

Daryl sometimes finds himself wishing he'd had the balls to insist they share the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. Not in the bed, of course, he isn't that stupid—he could pull up a gurney from the basement, make a nice little cot, maybe even make Beth some ear plugs out of all the cotton down there—but it would be nice to be near her. To protect her, of course. Maybe be close enough to wake her from her nightmares himself, instead of holding himself taut against her distant whimpers, listening to them through the pounding in his chest like the pounding of stairs he wants to take, to feel her whole and unbroken.

They've been living in the funeral home for months now, but it didn't take long to feel like home. She made it that way, he supposes; coming home from runs to her singing in the kitchen, or arranging wildflowers, or just sitting and reading. Not that he goes on lone runs often. She insists on pulling her weight, and he's glad of it; no matter how worried he gets over her safety (more than he should—so much more than he should, in ways that send stones into the pit of his gut) she's good backup, and hell knows they need it.

Together, they've built the place up. No screwing around like they did at the prison; from the start they'd begun a network of trenches around the property, hidden by gravestones and the tall grass; lined them with barbed wire, when they could find it, and put cans across every entrance. They've barely scratched the surface of what they could do, what they _will_ do, to keep this place safe; but just like on the road, they make a good team, and there's something about Beth at the end of a long day—sunburned to hell and dirt-smudged, blisters on her hands and grass-stains on her corded biceps—she's even more lovely, after those days, sore and languid and draped over everything. It makes him tingle, seeing dirt smudged across her pretty face and down her backside from when she sat for a water break; makes him tell her to get her ass off the furniture and into a bath, no matter the oil spills _he_ leaves everywhere he goes, if only to get the images out of his head of other things they could do in the dirt. Those thoughts, he tucks away; not in the same place he does those thoughts of her mangled and broken—but close. Close enough that they become disturbingly linked in ways that make him shiver.

But no matter what defenses he builds—physical or not, but always for her sake—he knows they're on borrowed time. If the prison taught them anything, it's that a place is safe until it isn't, and Daryl wants to hold that _isn't_ off as long as possible—longer, if he can help it. He might not have as many people counting on him now, but the one that does still matters.

That's why, when he wakes to the sound of vomiting, he doesn't even remember to grab his crossbow.

“Beth!” he shouts, bursting into the room she's claimed as hers—a sweet little guest room, done up in lace and lavender, an aesthetic Daryl doesn't find as offensive as he used to—looking around wildly, prepared for the worst. His eyes zero in on her form in the bed—huddled deeply into the covers, only the cap of her golden head peeking through—shining and perpetually flesh-free, thanks to the water pipes Daryl fixed with a swell of manly pride. There's an extra sheen of sweat, though, even as she shudders beneath the sheets.

She groans at his intrusion, but otherwise doesn't respond. Daryl lowers his knife, satisfied she isn't being gobbled up in the night—but it does nothing to shorten his strides as he rushes to her side.

“Beth?” he says again, touching the blankets over her waist. She flinches and whimpers at the touch, and Daryl yanks his hand away—a little hurt, then angry at feeling hurt. “The fuck's the matter?” he asks harshly.

“Go away, Daryl,” she mumbles into the covers, burrowing in deeper.

He hesitates. She's never asked him to leave her alone before. They're both solitary creatures, and somehow that makes their presence tolerable to each other in a way Daryl's never experienced before. Being in a room with her can be like being alone—but alone with the best of himself, like she's a dreamcatcher scaring away his demons. For her to dismiss him like this...

“Beth,” he says, as gently as he can, “Wha's going on? You got a fever?”

“No,” she mumbles.

“Then what's the problem?”

She mumbles something else, and he leans down till his face is almost in her hair, trying to hear.

“What you say?”

“My period.”

“Huh?”

“It's my period!”

“Oh.” He rears away, stunned. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” she says, laughing weakly. With a herculean effort she rolls herself over to face him, still curled, he realizes now, around her stomach. She looks absolutely miserable. “It hasn't been this bad since the first few years,” she says sheepishly, like it's something to apologize for. “Then all of a sudden, whammo.”

“Yeah.” Daryl shuffles uncomfortably, not meeting her eyes. “You need me to go on a run for, ah, somethin'?”

“Nah, I still got stuff from last month,” she says.

“Where'd you get that?”

“The pharmacy run,” she says slowly, like it should be obvious. “I was really that sneaky?”

“I don't go lookin' in the feminine isle,” Daryl grumbles. Even through the pain, her eyes light up as she laughs at him, and he can't help but smirk back. “What about the pain?”

She shrugs pitifully. “I'll be fine in a day or two.”

“We still got painkillers—“

“No!” she says sharply, wincing as it jostles her stomach. “We might need those later,” she says, strained. “This ain't so bad.”

He looks at her flatly. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“We can't go wastin' them every month. It ain't worth it.”

“What the fuck else we using them for?”

“I don't know!” Her face twists up in sudden pain, and she curls in on herself more tightly. He feels like a dick.

“Beth, you look like shit.”

“Sure know how to charm 'em, Mr. Dixon,” she says wryly. “I’m fine. Besides, ain't like I have any beauty pageants coming up.”

He can't tell her—even swimming in her own sweat and aged ten years by the pain—that she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen; that even the knowledge of what's going on down there doesn't stop his thoughts from spinning like they always do. They all know what blood tastes like, by now; he wonders if hers would be any sweeter...

He doesn't realize he's been staring at her until she closes her eyes in exhaustion, stifling a whimper. “Please just go,” she says weakly.

He shakes himself aware and glares at her. He snorts and turns to stomp from the room. “Fuck that,” he mutters.

He comes back with a bottle of water and the goddamn painkillers, slamming them both on the nightable and making her jump. “You're gonna take these, Greene,” he snarls, “if I have to shove them down your throat myself.”

The silence hold for enough beats that he begins to sweat. She blinks up at him, then suddenly breaks into one of the most beautiful smiles he's ever seen.

“Ok, Daryl.”

It takes him a moment to process. “Huh?”

“I said ok.” She sits up with only a few grimaces, takes the pills and downs the water, then looks up at him, expectant. She's still smiling like they're sharing a private joke; but instead of making him angry, he just feels shy.

“What?” he mutters.

“You're a funny one, Mr. Dixon.”

“The fuck's that mean?”

She shrugs. “Means I'm glad I'm with you, I guess.”

His cheeks feel like they're melting. He grunts.

She scoots over and pats the bed next to her. “Wanna keep me company till they kick in?”

_Jesus._

“Whatever,” he says, heart thundering. After a second to work out the logistics, he lowers himself down, careful not to jostle her too badly, and leans back against the headboard. His heart damn near explodes when she leans her head on his chest; he's sure it actually does when she picks up his hand and sticks it under her shirt, spread across her flat belly.

“Hmm,” she moans.

“The fuck you doing?” Daryl grates out, feeling his whole body flush.

“We don't have a heat pack,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “Feels good.”

 _Yeah it does_ , he thinks before he can stop himself. Her skin is smooth and soft and if she shifts just a little his middle finger will hit the underside of her breast. _Real good_. He gulps.

“Least we know you're not pregnant,” he blurts out.

She looks at him strangely. “How in the world could I be pregnant?”

“Just sayin',” he mutters.

He can feel Beth roll her eyes. She snuggles in deeper against him, tucking her head under his chin. His hand slides a little so it's cupping her waist. It's a perfect fit.

“We're good for now. Go to sleep, Daryl.”

 _I'm the farthest fucking thing from good,_ he thinks desperately. But something in her warmth, the smell of her, tugs at his senses.

When he next opens his eyes the sun is up, and they're wrapped together tight.


End file.
